Mission - Maria Mercurial
The Team *Walker *Fade *Steppen Wulf *Felix *Shadowhawk *Chang Prelude Just another night In the Sixth World. Night's usually for working, but I wanted to relax before this latest bit of biz. Some runs are tougher than others and even shadows need a break. On impulse, I gunned the Harley Scorpion into the fringes of the Puyallup Barrens, heading for the Underworld. Don't ask me what brought It on. Sometimes self-flagellation goes with my line of work. I honestly didn't remember that Maria Mercurial was playing Underworld 93 that night, not until I got to the club and saw her name flashing out over the packed streets in a rainbow of colours from the holographic marquee. I had a crazy impulse to spin the bike around and burn a path out of there, away from the coiling letters of light that spelled out her name. The crowd was a wild mixture of street slime from the Barrens rubbing shoulders with corporate shaikujin ''from Bellevue, the high and the low of Seattle crammed into a grungy city block to pay court to the rocker queen. Security was heavy, with Lone Star cops keeping things cool. The line coiled back from the main entrance, writhing like a giant python with heartburn. Most of those who made it to the door got a thumbs-down from Newt, the oversized Troll who is the Underworld's arbiter of elegance. No one was going to get in tonight who wasn't either macroflash or outrageously grungy enough to please Newt's sense of the grotesque. Of course, if you're a heavy politico, corp exec, media star, or occupy some other niche at the top of the food chain, then ordinary rules don't apply. I was carrying an ID that would get me past the gates of Heaven, assuming St. Peter knew what was good for him. The face on it was mine, though the rest of it was about as real as a politician's promise. I flashed it at the roadie who guarded the side entrance to the club, and was amused to see him instantly straighten up. The 100¥ bill wrapped around it probably helped. With some types, hard cash was a more enticing bribe than a credstick. Underworld 93 was alive that night. Light blasted into my eyes as I walked down the ramp leading from street level. The dance floor was an amorphous beast, writhing with a thousand limbs, and the beat of the music red-lined my pulse into overdrive. On the stage, a nova was dancing. Arms, legs, and face of mirror-bright metal, catching the searing beams of the spotlights and throwing them back in a dazzling cascade of colour and light. That was the first thing you saw. Then the hair, flaring golden in the glare, surrounding her face like a solar corona around a silver moon. Only afterward did you register the athlete's firm torso, muscles ridged with exertion, the all-too-human core of this robotic finery. Maria Mercurial danced and while you watched her, nothing else mattered. She was synth-linking the music, driving the banked-up sound machines with the impulses of muscle and nerve. Most kids who fancy themselves rockers just learn a few basic trigger patterns for their links, and let the programming of the control decks fill in the rest. Hearing and seeing Maria, you knew that every tone was driven by a highly trained movement, that the choreography of sound, body, and voice were all from the heart, as alive as children at play, as intimate as a lover's caress, as real as death. The voice was uniquely hers, yet it was also that of every woman you've ever loved ... or hated. One moment it spit in your face like a street killer high on Black Thunder. The next second it ripped out your heart like the cry of a starving child, or nailed you to the wail with a blazing spike of pure animal heat. One of my oldest friends collects old rock and roll recordings the way some people collect jewels or antique cars. Maria's voice always reminded me of some from those days, when the juice still ran hot through the music. Grace Slick comes to mind, or Janis Joplin, who burned out like a comet that got too close to the sun. When the set was over, the Underworld went berserk. Maria stood under a single, searing spot at the centre of the stage, her chest and belly pumping in deep, gasping breaths. The metal limbs shimmered as rivulets of sweat poured down from the human flesh of shoulders and hips. It was almost ten minutes before the demented crowd would let her go. I felt a crazy wave of hate flash through me at the way they screamed for more, when she'd already given more than human flesh, hers or theirs, should be able to stand. If she'd danced her life out on the stage and died for their pleasure, they'd still have shrieked their hunger. This had begun as a night off, but when your karma says it's time to work, you work. So the Harley and I were ready, waiting in an alley by the stage door, when Maria ran the gauntlet of fans to her limo. The big Mitsubishi Nightsky, mirror-chromed like its mistress from hood to trunk, pulled into the dark streets, and I eased out in its wake, trailing along a block behind. I was only a little surprised when the limo turned deeper into the Barrens, away from the lights of the city and into Seattle's own little heart of darkness. Sometimes, after a gig, Maria had to unwind. Her file made it clear how she would do it. I thumbed for a weapons check and the Scorpion's console reassured me that it was ready for any little unpleasantness that the zone might send my way. A block away from a razor-guy dive called The Armadillo, her car pulled over to the curb. Seeing that the driver had deployed his weaponry, I silently applauded his excellent good sense. The back door opened, and Maria stepped out. She was wearing a black street outfit, armour cloth set with silver splints that looked like a fetishist's dream come t rue and would probably stop a magnum slug at close-range. Baroque glasses covered the upper half of her face with black lenses so opaque they had to be vision-augmenters. She'd have been blind otherwise. She said something to the limo driver, and walked into The Armadillo as the car pulled away. I parked the bike, told it to frag anybody who even looked at it sideways, and followed her in. The joint was crammed with the wannabees, used-to-bees, and assorted killer-bees of the samurai scene. The vibes were a veritable oratorio of bad-ass. Maria was at the bar; constructing a margarita out of whatever toxic waste they sold under the alias of tequila. Several grimy-nasties approached her, offering dubious pleasures, and backed away when their best efforts didn't merit even a glance. Finally, a guy who might have been a Troll, except that Trolls rarely get so big or so ugly, locked target-acquisition on the lady. When his opening line got nowhere, he decided to drop the coy approach and grabbed her arm. There was a liquid movement of black and silver, and then the ardent suitor sailed into a knot of onlookers. Maria stood with her back to the bar, her onyx-lensed shades catching faint reflections from the lights overhead. Ugly boy seemed stunned, which was understandable, then let out a roar as what happened sank into his consciousness. He charged forward. Why do these muscle jobs always charge when they run into someone who can take them? Doubtless a shrinker could find deep and mysterious tendencies in the pattern. It's almost like they're programmed for it: get thrown, stand up, roar and charge. With an avoidance move so fine I expected the crowd to burst into applause, Maria took herself off the guy's line of attack. One silver hand slipped over his outstretched, clutching arm, the other looped up to grasp the back of his neck. She stepped aside, continuing the turn she had begun, and cartwheeled the goon over the bar into a pyramid of bottles. The destruction was awesome. There is something about the sound of breaking glass in places like this. Within seconds, the bar turned into one, humongous brawl. I pistoned the heel of a hand into a snaggletoothed face that got too close and followed a trail of flying bodies that marked the quicksilver lady's path to the door. Once outside, I scanned for a second before I heard the wrenching sound of someone being violently sick in a doorway down the block. Moving as silently as I knew how, I moved into position to check it out, and was rewarded with the sight of Maria vomiting against the stoop. I could also see two furtive figures in the shadows, inching closer and closer to the bent-over figure. The lone streetlight on the corner caught the gleam of steel in their hands. I pulled my Viper. "Nothing personal, guys," I muttered, as the tiny red spot of the laser sight popped into being. The deadly needles ''phutted ''as they drilled into the thuggers' foreheads. Out of the corner of one eye, I could see the silver limousine turning the corner, come to retrieve its owner after her brief night out. Maria was sitting in the trash on the bottom step of the brownstone, hands over her face, crooning to herself in a quiet, steady voice. The elaborate shades lay shattered on the pavement, twisted out of shape as if a powerful, metal leg had stamped them again, and again, and again. Her personal demons had been laid to rest, at least for tonight, by the twin drugs of music and violence. The chauffeur climbed out of the car, cradling a short, ugly shotgun under one arm. He bent over the rocking figure and spoke quietly. She looked up. I had my eyes turned up to deal with the darkness, and under the ghostly light of the dim streetlamp, I could see her face plainly. I have never understood why the late and unlamented Reynaldo Texamachach had left the eyes unaltered when he had Maria's skin job done. Maybe there was something about the deep, brown, living eyes looking out of the silver mask of her face that did something for him. It always made me want to cry, or kill something. I watched as the pair went back to the car. The driver handed Maria into the rear seat like she was royalty. Then he got into the front and burned rubber getting away from that little corner of Hell. Smart fellow. I walked back to where I'd stashed the Harley, and kicked away the twitching body of a local with more greed than sense who had gotten too close to the electrically charged anti-theft plates. They retracted when I told the bike I was back. As I wheeled my way back to base, I nearly had to stop for a good puke myself. Maria Mercurial. I'd studied her. Seen her make her art and found joy in it as I watched. With the access to her files that my masters at given me, I knew her better than she knew herself. Now all I had to do was kill her. Some runs are tougher than others. Chapter 1: Underworld 93 Anyone who knows the scene knows Underworld 93. The club started out as an Industrial warehouse, and it’s cavernous Interior is now a favourite spot for those who like their rock and roll meltdown-hot. Mixing with the nova stars who rule the rock galaxy at the Underworld are newer bands, as owner Sidney Murdoch has' a knack for identifying struggling young acts that later tum out to be chartbusters. · Many of them show their gratitude by continuing to play the Underworld even when they could be filling one of Seattle's bigger halls for more money. When the Team reaches the club, the marquee over the main entrance spells out one word in meter-high Kromeglow letters: '''MERCURIAL'. There's a mob outside, jostling for position at the door. A tough-looking Troll wearing a tuxedo is turning most of the hopefuls away, while private security guards patrol the area. A smaller line to the left is for those with passes, which the guards are careful to scrutinize closely. Members of the Universal Brotherhood handed out pamphlets to the party goers. Flashes of multicoloured light illuminate this scene from the windows of the battered warehouse building. People inside the club thoroughly enjoy watching the folks outside trying to get in. For some, it is a bigger rush than listening to the music. The Team makes their way to the smaller line and eventually to the made it to Newt, the Troll Bouncer. A quick look from the troll and they fail the test “Frag off chummer”. Walker quickly flashed the tickets. “I dunt know...” Newt hesitated. A 100 Nuyen note later and asked them to wait a moment. Newt will glower forbiddingly at the characters and say "Awrlght, yer in. Enjoy da show and don't make no trouble. Dere's a guy wants ta talk at ya. Head backstage at 0200 and ask for Max. " Steppenwulf checked his shotgun at the coat counter and the Team made their way into the Underworld... As the Team walked into the club, a middle-aged guy with a big gut, wearing a grungy Underworld 93 T-shirt, was standing centre-stage, leading the applause for Low Earth Orbit, the warm-up band that's just finished its set. Fade recognized Sidney Murdoch, the club's owner. The place was jammed. Smoke filled the air so that the spotlight beams look likes solid pillars of light. The bartenders are going berserk trying to keep up with the flow of orders. "Right, you brain-damaged, re-wired mutants! Here's why you've been sweating all over my nice, clean floors all evening. Ladies and gentlemen-if there are ''any out there-and all the rest of you trash as well, here's MARIA MERCURIAL!" The spotlights cut out, plunging the club into utter darkness as the crowd goes absolutely out of its mind. The applause goes on and on, until a single note starts to rise through the pitch darkness, getting louder and louder until it's almost at the threshold of pain. A searing white klleg light stabs down onto the stage, and reflects nova-bright off the silver skin of Maria Mercurial. She stands like a statue of molten white metal, as the rising note breaks suddenly into a driving, demanding rhythm, the intro to "Puta” the title song on her latest album. Suddenly, she is in motion, synthlinking the sound, driving it with her muscles and nerves. The club explodes into flashing lights, and the tri-vid wall behind the stage flashes with footage from the Toronto Food Riots of 2048. The music grabs you by the throat and screams at you: '' '' ''YO,soy tu madre, ''so don't frag with me, I'll mess you up bad if you dare disagree. My time is money, you know that, ''cabr6n. You got what you wanted, so why hang around, Yo soy tu madre. Lovely ''puta, ''that's what you say to me, ''Hola, puta, ''I'm what you want me to be, Till you get the thing you want, Nothing's too good for me. But when you're done And have your fun, then it’s ''Puta, ''dirty ''puta, ''just get away from me... Steppenwulf made his way to the bar and orders a vodka on the rocks hold the rocks. Fade made his way onto the dance floor and enjoyed the vibe. Walker and Felix waited impatiently. Felix muttered a chant to himself, a small charm against enemies... Aztechnology Category:Missions